The Tauren Envoy

Brann was dumbfounded. They had forced this information out of a Troll Priest, and hardly any time had passed since Muradin told him about it. How could Arthas already be so certain it was a trap?

"Did Muradin go looking for that weapon himself and get attacked by the undead?"

"How did you know? Did Muradin tell you?" Brann felt as though he had seen a ghost. How did this Arthas know everything?

Could I have frozen to death out in the wilderness ages ago? Was all of this just some fantasy I dreamed up after dying?

Just then, a cold draft slipped through a gap in the tent flap, making Brann shudder. He studied Arthas, who was looking at the map, and found him as composed and gentle as ever-the very picture of a Paladin.

Damn it, surely a ghost pretending to be the prince of Lordaeron couldn't use the Holy Light too?

Brann pressed down on his fishing hat and coughed. "Well, what else do you know?"

"I also know that the weapon is a runeblade, guarded by ancient wraiths and hidden in a cold, desolate cave." Arthas's voice reached Brann's ears.

"Anything else?" Brann did not even notice the slight tremor in his own voice. The old dwarf had ventured into tombs, dug up graves, and explored countless ancient ruins, yet the thought of ghosts had actually unnerved him.

I wonder if a rifle can kill a ghost... Brann muttered inwardly.

"Of course. The weapon's name is Frostmourne-Brann, why are you shaking? Is my tent too cold?"

Arthas gauged the temperature and did not find it particularly cold. A dwarf who had spent years living among freezing, snow-covered mountains should have had even less reason to fear such a chill.

"Are you really Arthas?" Brann stared at the prince. "And not some demon or ghost or something pretending to be him?"

The two questions made Arthas chuckle despite himself. He gathered a ball of Holy Light and shone it on Brann, dispelling the chill in his heart. "Of course I'm the prince of Lordaeron. The genuine article."

Brann shivered before slowly recovering from that chill. He looked a little dazed. "Uh-I think my head wasn't quite clear just now."

"Your head wasn't clear?" Only then did Arthas realize what was wrong. "Brann, have you visited any elven ruins or places like that?"

"Earlier-I mean, before your men rescued us-we explored a small ruined elven structure," Brann answered honestly.

Arthas summoned another beam of Holy Light, brighter than the first. Under its protection, Brann felt warmth gradually return to his body.

"You seem to have an elven wraith attached to you." Arthas frowned. "It's causing hallucinations and all sorts of confused fantasies."

"An elven wraith? So I really did see a ghost." Brann was his usual dwarven self again. He rubbed his large nose. "Why didn't I notice before?"

"Because you were in Howling Fjord. The necrotic energy there is thin, so it barely affected you. Even I didn't notice. But this is Dragonblight, and we're in its northern reaches."

With his wealth of experience, Brann roughly understood what Arthas meant. An undead creature's strength was closely linked to the power it had possessed in life. An ordinary human, for instance, could hardly even become a ghost after death, while an elf could easily become a spirit steeped in necrotic energy.

Dragonblight, as its name suggested, was the "white desert" where most dragons chose to lay their bones. Since ancient times, whether a dragon died naturally or met an untimely end, it either flew back to Dragonblight before death to choose its final resting place or had its remains carried back to this snowfield by its kin.

Perhaps the remains of an ancient dragon lay beneath the thick snow and earth on which the two of them stood. After death, the immense power dragons possessed would give rise to considerable amounts of necrotic energy.

Although that energy could hardly raise a dragon's corpse again, affecting comparatively "weak" creatures was no difficult matter.

Brann had probably provoked a ghost or spirit somewhere earlier, leaving necrotic energy clinging to him. It had been too weak to affect him at the time, but once he reached Dragonblight, the situation became entirely different.

For now, Brann might only feel chilled and find his thoughts wandering into strange territory. Left untreated, however, he could eventually lose his mind and even become unable to distinguish friend from foe.

"Damn it, I didn't even notice I'd been hit." Brann felt utterly humiliated. An experienced explorer like him had nearly come to grief in a little elven ruin?

"It's not your fault, Brann. Anyone who doesn't use the Holy Light or... well, isn't a Priest would have trouble noticing something like this. Even if it went unnoticed, a curse of this level would naturally fade after you spent some time away from places where wraiths gather. If you hadn't followed us to Dragonblight, this wouldn't have happened."

"Forget it. Either way, I underestimated the dangers of Northrend... I was muddled just now, too, trying to get you to find that-that sword. What was it called again?" Brann slapped his forehead. Now that he had recovered, his memory of what he had said earlier was somewhat hazy.

"Frostmourne."

"Right, that snow's sorrow thing. What a mouthful. Whatever it's called, that name doesn't sound lucky." Brann's expression turned serious.

"Your instincts are sharp, Brann. You're absolutely right. This runeblade is no ancient artifact, but a demonic sword through and through-it devours the souls of all its victims. The more it devours, the stronger it becomes."

Arthas's tone remained calm, but that simple description made Brann's skin crawl. It devoured the souls of everyone its wielder killed? Who could have made such a thing? And what had they made it for?

"But Brann, do you know the nature of demons?"

Brann shook his head. Though a professional archaeologist, he knew little about demons, creatures not native to Azeroth. Otherwise, he would not even have mispronounced the word Nathrezim.

"Demons are evil beings from the Twisting Nether. Their souls don't simply perish on physical worlds; these foul souls are rejected by the world. So after death, demons return to the Twisting Nether. Unless special magic or items are used to intercept them beforehand, they're almost impossible to kill."

As Brann listened, he began to sense something unsettling in Arthas's words. The prince had stressed that Frostmourne was a demonic sword that devoured souls, and now he was saying that demons' souls were difficult to destroy for good.

The old dwarf stared at Arthas in disbelief. "You-you're not thinking of..."

In Kalimdor, on the peninsula southeast of Dustwallow Marsh, a new human city had risen. Edwin VanCleef was its chief architect and its acting administrator.

Following Arthas's wishes, he had named the city Theramore. In the future, it would serve as the Alliance's foothold in Kalimdor.

For now, VanCleef had set aside his work to receive a special guest in the town hall. He was an envoy sent by the tauren to negotiate with the Alliance, and his name was Hamuul Runetotem.

The wise tauren elder had volunteered to their chieftain, Cairne Bloodhoof, to meet with these outsiders who had landed in Kalimdor and claimed they would offer the tauren aid.

In truth, even VanCleef, a high-ranking spy from SI:7, had felt an instinctive twinge of fear when first faced with these towering figures, nearly three meters tall. But he was receiving guests not as a private individual, but as Prince Arthas's representative. Whatever happened, he could not allow his fear to show.

On the day the tauren arrived in Theramore, he arranged for the kitchens to provide a lavish meal for their delegation. Only when VanCleef noticed the smaller, younger tauren guards staring wide-eyed at the feast did he relax a little.

These fellows were much gentler than they looked-at least compared with those savage orcs. The mysterious old tauren, Hamuul Runetotem, had even picked up the basics of the human language in just half a day and could converse normally with VanCleef.

Even VanCleef, who knew little about magic, could tell that the tauren elder leading them was certainly no ordinary member of his tribe.

"Thank you for your generous hospitality." Hamuul Runetotem's voice sounded somewhat aged, but it was strong and full.

"It is only what we ought to do. We sincerely wish to forge an alliance with your people." VanCleef spoke with great courtesy, displaying all the humility of a human noble.

Acting was, after all, one of an operative's required skills.

Hamuul Runetotem quietly studied the human man before him. Although the engineer, who looked like a clerk, concealed himself well, Hamuul could still sense an aura of danger around VanCleef. It meant the man had enough strength to pose a threat to him.

All these unusual signs puzzled him. Where had these humans come from? If they had crossed the sea, why did they know of the tauren's existence, and how did they know so clearly about the threat his people faced?

Had the voices of the nature spirits not persuaded Hamuul Runetotem to set aside his wariness for the time being, the small human party that first came looking for them would never have been allowed to leave their tribe.

Still, he had to admit that the humans' promises were deeply tempting. The tauren had suffered under the threat of the centaurs for far too long, to the point that it had disrupted their everyday lives.

That was why Hamuul and Cairne had decided to make initial contact with the humans and try to sound them out, to discover why they had suddenly appeared in Kalimdor.